Speaking of the Germans (see Touch Me), Mercedes-Benz are manufactured in Germany. This is common knowledge. Furthermore, during WWII, many German manufacturers used slave labor from concentration camps in their production of goods. Since the closing of labor and concentration camps, most of these companies issued statements of apology for their use of slave labor (Mercedes included). Interestingly, BMW (another German company) is one of the only companies who did not issue a public statement of apology. Instead, they set up funds for their victims and decided to keep their mouths shut.

Those four sentences sum up some of what I took away from a visit to the Dachau concentration camp outside of Munich. I also use it as a “fun fact” for those of my friends and relatives that drive BMWs, and fodder for my own “decision” to drive a Honda Civic (which coincidentally gets 40 mpg and can have parts repaired by literally anyone who can speak the English language). History aside, Mercedes are manufactured in Germany, amongst other places, and thus the scene is set.

Although I do not consider myself a cyclist, I do own (or I did until it was stolen after I drunkenly locked only the front tire after a visit to the bar) a bike in the city. I am not an asshole when I bike, and I kindly obey traffic laws, ride with traffic, and stop at lights. I also wear a helmet (most of the time). My bike is an early 90s bare-bones mountain bike that I intercepted as my dad attempted to leave it with the trash on the street for someone “less fortunate”. Our succession of golden retrievers (see You’re a Homo) over the years had chewed off most of the pedals, and the black and (barely visible) neon served as an homage to the glory days of the nineties.

After three years of successful cycling in the city (success determined by the fact that I am still breathing and do not use a colostomy bag), I had still yet to develop the cycling sense to be able to weave between the M15 bus and motorcycles, or to “jump” my bike from the street over a curb. In general, my bike was able to get me from point A to point B, and it was free. One of my favorite cycling moves was to ride to the bar, have a drink, and attempt to ride back without running into trash bags on the side-walk. So far I’m 3-3.

Thus, my decision to ride my bike to a match date (our second and last meeting) in Chelsea was not any cause for alarm. In order to keep my hair from messing, I decided to leave my helmet at home. I didn’t need to broadcast to the bar that not only was I on a match.com date, but I was also unable to afford a cab.

The ride was uneventful. I managed to keep my white jeans (worn far in advance of Memorial Day) from getting dirty, and I strategically managed to keep from sweating (Do not underestimate the difficulty of this feat). As I turned onto 6th Avenue (in the bike lane of course), I glimpsed the bar and decided to give myself a two block bike buffer (this way it would be less obvious that I had biked to anyone standing around or by a window in the bar). At the same time, a gentleman ( I say this out of respectful ignorance) decided to emerge from his parked Mercedes at lightning speed without looking into the bike lane (this is NYC driving 101). Thus, without time to do anything other than say “fuck,” I careened full speed into his door, and ended up on my hands and knees after gracelessly falling over top of the driver side door.

Realizing that I was not seriously injured, I tried to get my simple ass out of the road without getting hit by oncoming traffic (this is also rather difficult, and cabbies on 6th were not happy with my apparent idiocy as they attempted to get uptown). Managing to get to my feet, I looked my assailant in the eye, and was shocked by his response.

Do you know this is a German car?

YES I KNEW. See my opening five sentences. Unfortunately for me, immediately after getting doored I was unable to put coherent thoughts together.

Yes.

And by yes, what I should have said was “Do you know that I am a human being? Or perhaps that you are complete douchebag?” Either would have sufficed. Unsure of what to do, I apologized profusely for his ineptitude, scrambled to get my bike on the curb, and I believe even uttered the words “Thank you.”

What not to say after getting doored.

In a doored-induced fury, I locked my bike to the nearest street sign, reapplied my lipstick, and haphazardly tried to stop my hands from bleeding. All in all I was 5 minutes late for my date, which in New York standards is 20 minutes early. And despite my excitement of having overcome a minor NYC tragedy, my date was taken aback by my (apparently) disheveled and bloodied self. Still a bit shaky, I drank my standard quota with speed usually saved for the weekends, and found myself tipsy within the half-hour.

It could have been the blood that turned him off. It could have been that I told him what happened and he was appalled that I had biked to a bar (Although he was a hippie from Oregon so that would be a bit cliche). It also could have been my comments about the Germans.

I need to keep the Germans out of it.

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However, after running into a bunch of Lederhosen-clad males from Boston College at a local watering hole on MacDougal, I was swooned into participating in a menagerie of drinking games involving too much beer, and too many Lederhosen. It turns out that the Lederhosen were a nod to their time spent abroad in Germany together years earlier, and this was a reunion of sorts. It is worth pointing out, however, that since this encounter I have seen many men rock Lederhosen, even without a relatively substantial reason. It’s like they always say…when in New York, do as the Germans do.

After playing the obligatory name-game, it turned out that many of these men happened to know some of my close friends from BC (shocking, that a bunch of white males from the tri-state area would know my white girl-friends from Catholic school in New Jersey). I exchanged numbers with one of the shorter men before leaving the bar to head further west into the Village.

Turns out, one of my best friends from high-school was particularly close with the small man that I had exchanged numbers with. After doing a full background check with her after he asked me on a date a week later, I determined that I would not be raped and left for the homeless at recycling stations around lower Manhattan (What is it with Asians and recycling?).

Our first date was uneventful. He wore a gingham shirt, and Lederhosen were nowhere to be seen. Ironically, the bar that we went to on our first date morphed into my go-to local bar, and also responsible for the pisser (see The Pisser). After two-rounds of drinks, he put my drunk ass into cab and I headed back to the East Village with Imar the cab driver.

Our second date was medium. We went to dinner and I consumed my characteristic two drinks. As we left, there may or may not have been a kiss. There was likely not tongue. Overall, I was content with the date, and was relatively positive that his (lack of) height would not be a serious concern for the hypothetical date number 3.

New York is a city where anything goes. There are some nights when a girl’s night with popcorn, wine, and Center Stage is in order. There are other nights when you crave dinner and drinks at a local bar. Some times its a night at a dive bar Sing-Sing for no reason at all. And other times, you just need to dance with your girls in the meatpacking district with the under-thirty crowd, drink absolute vodka priced at $450 a bottle for the idiots that end up actually paying, and remain confused about the function of the bathroom attendants (Do you have to tip them? Do people take the mints? I can get my own soap and paper towel thank you). It was on one of these nights, after hours of too many vodkas mixed with whatever was left at the table, that I sent the standard drunk text to small boy.

Hey. Whats up?

Hey, we are just hanging out at my place, want to come by?

Leaving Boom Boom, walking to you.

45 minutes later, after walking aimlessly around the West Village (I was unable to use my sober skills of directional sense, and the Freedom Tower was not yet tall enough to show the way), and repeatedly ending up at the intersection of West 10th and West 4th (WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT), I finally ended up on the doorstep of small boy.

As I entered his apartment, I noticed that there was no one else inside. Who was the we he was referring to in our previous texts? Was the party over? Did he have a dog? Or better yet, did he also have a pussy? (See Pussy Test). Before I could have any of these pressing questions answered, I was accosted by tongue, hands and a boner visible through jeans. I politely removed my shoes (I needed to decrease the height differential in whatever way possible) and immediately regretted the commitment I had made in doing so.

Before I could say “Lederhosen,” we were on his (twin) bed (for small people), and he was completely naked. While I remained fully clothed, he said something that at first I was unable to hear. Drunkenly, I responded,

What did you say?

(In a tone akin to Brazilian porn star’s sexual command)

Touch Me.

(WHAT THE FUCK).

Not knowing what else to do. I “touched” him in the region below the belt, and was visibly shocked by the (lack of) size of what greeted me. Unable to continue, I brought my hand quickly north.

Touch Me. (????)

And when I didn’t….Again

My first reaction was to blame my friend from high-school. WHY HADNT SHE TOLD ME THIS!!!???

My second reaction was to feign drunken vomiting, grab my shoes, and leave.

I touched him. I touched him twice. I touched him twice fully clothed while his small nude body lay next to mine in his twin bed.

And I ran my simple ass out of his apartment before anything else involving his nudity could transpire.

Do I feel guilty about my behavior? I do.

Would I do it again? You fucking bet.

Do I wish small boy well? I do.

Will I ever be able to say those two words again? I will not.

Will I continue to go to the bar he introduced me to? I will.

Generally I don’t date men in Lederhosen.

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As I reflect on my lack of New York love life, I find myself thinking about the foundation that made me who I am today. Specifically, I think about my first and longest relationship thus far, covering parts of both my high-school and college career, to a guy that truly is one of a kind. The fact that the poor soul dealt with my hand-jobs and sub-par blowies for almost two years is a testament to our relationship. And while losing my virginity to him was exactly what I had wanted, he took in stride that my narrow-set vagina was less than ideal for a first encounter. Between my tears and whimpers, we consummated the relationship after a seven minute tryst on a top bunk in a dorm room. #therewillbeblood. Winning.

Although our relationship was filled with the standard drama and jealousy of virgin relationships, we shared a unique compatibility that I find is rare even among friends. He knew me better than I knew myself, and I would have done anything for him. Yet we were both immature and I was struggling to figure my proverbial shit out, at the same time dealing with the awkward sexual revolution of my youth. I had not yet discovered the allure of masturbating, and even after one year of dating, I was still unsure as to whether or not I had ever had an orgasm. What did it feel like? How would I know? Would it hurt?

Aidan was a year older than me and thus had to drive my simple ass around for the majority of our relationship. Upon meeting my dad for the first time, and being asked to submit a urine sample (this was not out of the ordinary for my father), we knew that my house would not be the best place for most of our rendezvous. Because Aidan lived over thirty minutes away, our options for hangouts were limited. Luckily for us, there was a park about a three minute drive from my parents, relatively concealed by vegetation, that became “the spot” for most of my early sexual experiences. The “spot” was no more than a parking lot next to a river that was only rarely frequented by local cops who had nothing better to do. Occasionally there would be other parked cars, but it was an unspoken code not to acknowledge what was going on in each car. After bragging about finding this “spot” to my friends, there was more than one awkward encounter of showing up at the parking lot, only to find other girls from my class with their current boy-du-jour in a variety of SUVs. It was here, after a particularly long car make out session in the back of Aidan’s Jeep, accompanied by the musical talents of Phish and Dave Matthews Band (like any other white suburban high-school couple), that I experienced my first orgasm. Unsure at the time of what the sensation meant (Did I have to pee?), I told Aidan to stop what he was doing.

What’s wrong?

Nothing, I think something’s happening.

Does it feel good?

I think so? But stop. I’m anxious (so fucking typical of me)

Okay. I’ll stop.

After recounting the sensation (it felt like an uncontrollable kegel, but in a good way?) to my friend Noelle (who in high school was my sex guru), she was pleased to inform me that I had just experienced my first orgasm, and that if I had let Aidan continue, I would have realized this, and no, it was nothing to be anxious about. To this day, she still provides me with sexual support, free of both judgement and charge.

Like any relationship, it is important to understand that we all have our own tendencies and insecurities. And because Aidan was the first person I had been physically intimate with, he was the lucky one who got to deal with mine. I tended not to shave my legs very well, because the hair grew back so quickly, and what was the point? To this day, I still have issues spending precious shower time negotiating shaving my boney runner’s knees, and figuring out what direction the razor needs to go in order to shave the back of my legs (advice anyone?). In addition, I suffered from a variety of anxieties that I needlessly burdened Aidan with, hoping that this shared knowledge would in some way alleviate these fears. And while this may be the case for adults, it was not healthy for my high-school relationship.

In terms of insecurities, I was (and still am) incredibly self-conscious about my boobies. They are below average in size (34B), relatively symmetrical, without oversized nipples (compared to the nipples that I have seen, which is a negligible number). It is important to note that I am generally a hairy person (go where you will with that).

Even now, my students generally ask me why I have so much hair on my arms. My response? At least its blonde.

Thus, it should not seem surprising that there would be hair on my boobs. And yes, while most of the hair on my body is the innocuous blonde peach fuzz, I am not proud to report that on occasion, I would find single dark strands of hair around my nipple (and proceed to immediately pluck them [no more than 7] off, which was less than painless). This hair would be, and continues to be, a battle that fight with regularity. Yet because Aidan was my first relationship, this insecurity was at the forefront of most of shirtless encounters with him. And whether he thought it was funny, or was trying to downplay that his girlfriend had hairy tits, Aidan dubbed them “Ape tits.” And it stuck.

Chapin, want to take your ape tits out tonight?

(Looking self-consciously at my tits) Sure

APE-TITTIES!

Aidan.

Last year, I went so far as to buy a Groupon for laser hair removal to remove those pesky aureola hairs (yup, said it). Everett stepped up to make the appointment (see Who’s Your Gay?), and examined the before and after. Yet after six sessions of a rather uncomfortable process, I found no success. I could only laugh out loud when the doctor came in after the final session and “recommended” that I not purchase another package.

Ape-tits it is.

So my relationship with Aidan helped me to cement my anxiety surrounding my tits, and it also has made my current dating life in New York difficult. Having only truly loved two people in my life, I have high standards for the next person that I can say I love (and who can handle the ape tit situation), and am willing to dump my token insecurities on. Although going on dates in New York is fun, primarily for their comedic value and the potential for a free meal (I’m a teacher living in the East Village), I have yet to be convinced of their return value. Until then, I engage in the Friday night ritual of the tittie-pluck while my cat (See The Pussy Test) looks on with a look of disgust. Afterwards, I begrudgingly “shave” my legs and put on a freshly laundered Canadian Tuxedo. And if its an “on” week, I have Everett come over to examine a fresh wax. TGIF ladies. Living. The. Life.

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Like most straight girls living in New York, the need for a “gay” is like the need for a taxi in the west village when its raining. Gays are a necessity to straight women. And although my brother is a raging homo (See You’re a homo), he is not gay enough to be my gay (are you following?). He is too much of a pitcher (yup, went there) to provide for me what I need in a gay.

Having a gay to accompany you on activities that straight men are too embarrassed to do is a must. When I want to roller blade on the west side highway in full blading paraphernalia, for example, the only person who returned my enthusiasm is my gay Everett. He has kayaked with my on the Hudson off the Christopher St. Pier without much trepidation (besides, it was a great instagram opportunity and he had been itching to hit the 5,000 follower mark, while I’m perpetually stuck around 200). He shops with me and gives me useful advice, without sugar-coating the truth.

Those jeans give you camel toe.

That shirt makes your love-handles show.

That’s okay.

Too gay. (?????)

And even though Everett and I grew up together, our relationship was not consummated (figuratively) nor activity filled until we both lived in Manhattan full-time.

I don’t know where I would be without Everett. He’s the one that I can always count on. He tells me when to shave my legs and/or reapply deodorant. I can show off a good brazilian wax to him and count on an enthusiastic response. He will pre-game with me at bars before I surrender myself to the torture of yet another match.com date (Maybe I need to remove the part on my profile that says I have two cats living with me). He will accompany me to Dry Bar, and will inevitably end up leaving with the number of the best looking male stylist. He tells me when my instagram hashtags suck, and he provides an added “like” when my numbers are low.

But the friendship goes both ways. Everett drags me to Barry’s bootcamp so I can huff along side him in my Hanes deep-v tee shirt on the treadmill while his tight little lululemon-clad ass gets checked out by our instructor and 94% of the men in our class. I am not even an afterthought to these men. They sweat odorless vitamin water and look damn good doing it. I provide him with the mothering he needs when he has a cold, preparing care packages of Nyquil, green tea, a sleep-mask, and assorted goodies. I massage his legs when he has had long night on the dance floor, or after an attempt to recreate a gymnastics routine that he nailed in college. I call Uni-K and schedule his ass waxes, and I will photograph their waxing handiwork post appointment. And when Everett is having a particularly hectic week, I am even kind enough to share my Xanax!

It hasn’t always been activity filled, and there have been particularly trying times that we have endured together. I have sat with baited breath with Everett, as he anxiously awaits the results of his self-inflicted STD tests, especially after a particularly bonkers weekend, or an unexpectedly rough night with an Equinox instructor. I have ensured that his simple 5 foot 6 ass returned safely home after “mistakenly” using ketamine in the Jane Hotel bathroom.

I have sat awestruck as he recounted a night that began as a friendly hangout, and ended up at a male porn stars apartment with T and G while his friend invited strangers from craiglist and manhunt.com (yes, this is a thing) to participate in a meth-induced orgy. He was angered that his friend had put him in such a compromising position, and I could only nod in agreement (This situation was not something that happened with single, white, twenty-something females after a night in the west village, so I struggled to empathize). While they remain friends on Facebook and Instagram, he agrees that the face-to-face friendship should take a brief hiatus. Amen.

He has leant a listening ear when I came out to my parents (see You’re a homo), and helped me navigate my newfound relationship with my brother (only after a brief online flirtation with him via social media).

Everett provides the friendship that I look for in a girl friend, without the annoyance of actually being a girl. We are not after the same fish in the proverbial sea, so that competitive edge that exists so often with female counterparts is non-existent. We will never go after the same men, unless of course I mistakenly assume the attractive man talking to me at the bar is straight (“Chapin, I love you, but come on, he was BEAUTIFUL.” Thanks for the honesty Everett). Our menstrual cycles never “sync-up,” so any unnecessary bitchiness is a rarity. And most importantly, no matter who Everett is seeing, his relationship status will never trump our friendship. Unlike many girls, gay men don’t abandon friendships when they are dating, and THIS. IS. THEIR. CROWNING. GLORY.

Navigating the concrete jungle is a difficulty for a single woman. Having a gay can make it manageable. So while a match.com profile lasts for months, and a New York relationship tops out at a year, a gay is for life. Who’s yours?

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There are times that I wish I had the power to see other people naked. Not in my bedroom naked, but naked in the sense that I am walking past an attractive male (likely gay), and I am able to see what is going on underneath those skinny jeans and smoke filled tee-shirt. In addition, I think it would be a nice social experiment to determine if male body type had any predictive power to determine the logistics (length, width, degree of tilt, circumcision status, cleanliness, the list goes on…) of the male reproductive organ. Did tall men have long penises? What does a ginger’s penis look like? Do short men have short penises? Were fat people uncircumcised? (I don’t know how this connects but it is a valid question of mine).

Had this power existed in my life, I would have likely avoided more than a few uncomfortable sexual encounters. Would it have prevented the never nude? (See The Never Nude) I am unsure, but I can say with certainty that it would have prevented the chode experience.

The primary characteristic of a chode penis involves width, or girth, of said member. More specifically, the ratio of length to width. While the ratio of a typical (but clearly not in my experience) penis may approximate 6:1, the chode approaches a ratio closer to 2:1, and in extreme cases, 1:1 (and if you have seen this I would like a jpeg). Needless to say, the experience in the bedroom can be a bit tainted, and at times painful, when a chode enters into the equation. And don’t even THINK about anal.

While dating a musician in New York (this should have been my first clue, as musicians never seem to any trouble getting ass, even if they have a chode or drive a smart car), I was excited to have developed such a strong friendship with a person that could be so musically inclined. My musical tendencies were limited to white-girl dancing in my early twenties at an assortment of New York City nightclubs, and have evolved into the sway/bop/bounce trifecta that occurs while listening to bands like St. Lucia, Haim and Jagwar Ma. Thus, I was wooed by the angelic voice and guitar strums of a skinny man that dressed much better than I did, and whose smokey exhales and kisses tainted my runner lungs daily.

Although I am by no means obese, I am also not New York skinny. I eat three meals a day, drink alcohol, and don’t stick my finger down my throat after a meal. Thus, I consume calories, and cannot be blown over a rogue breeze. I also run, and would like to consider myself toned (as says my current match.com profile. Yup. Said it. Don’t judge me). In the beginning, I did not worry much about the perceived weight differential between myself and my musician man (he was no more than 130 pounds, and I just hovering around the same number). But as the make-out sessions grew more serious, and shirts were removed, I must admit wanting to force feed him a couple of Whitman’s burgers and a Peanut Butter Shake-Shack milkshake.

I guess I should have given more thought to the fact that shirts were removed relatively easily, but that boxers had yet to be removed well into the “relationship,” despite my attempt to extract them from his body. Was this another never nude situation? Should I have told him he could put it through the hole? Either way, I was perplexed.

And when boxers were finally removed, the relationship changed drastically. How was I EVER going to have sex with Charles? There was NO way that chode was going to fit into my narrow set vagina, and there was certainly no way it was going to fit into my bum. But as I am generally up for a challenge, I knew I had to try chode sex before I completely lost hope in the relationship. How bad could it possibly be?

The answer. BAD. Not only was it a painful and lube-assisted process, but the aftermath was no joke. I was a cowgirl, unable to sit without wincing. How would I take my twice daily BMs (Bowel Movements) required of runners? How could this go on? And more importantly, how can you break up with someone because of their parts?

It’s New York. Worse things have happened. People have been dumped for less. And really, it’s all in the delivery.

“I think we are better of as friends. Friends who don’t fuck.” It could be worse. I could have told him I was a lesbian (See You’re a Homo).

What have I learned from this? Don’t assume people match their parts.

And don’t date someone without seeing what you and your vagina are signing up for.

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Growing up, my parents did little to educate my brother and I on sexuality, and generally stayed away from conversations regarding sex. My only memory of having any sort of “talk” with my parents was a brief conversation with my mother discussing the logistics of sex.

“Mom, so if you have five kids, does that mean that you would have to do it five times!?”

“Can you leave your shirt on?” (Because obviously this is a very serious consideration to a young adolescent)

While I went to all-girls Catholic School, my brother enjoyed a non-secular education at the local public school. Growing up, I had limited interaction with my brother, and our four year age gap was likely to blame. Yet despite this void, I knew that my brother dated the “hottest” girl in his class, and that he was objectively a good looking guy. I was often reminded of this as my own friends would ask if they could take him out, etc. The answer to which was always a fuck no.

Fast forward to the summer of 2010, when my girl friends and I went down to Miami to stay with my brother who had a summer internship nearby. Nights were spent at the Gansevoort and the Delano, as my brother and his friends showed us what it meant to go out in Miami. Needless to say, I was not surprised to see my brother often surrounded by girls, and I was not shocked to see him participate in the stereotypical white-boy dance makeout routine.

This background is all that is necessary to set the scene for my father’s birthday in the Fall of 2011. I had left the city for the weekend to be a “good daughter” and celebrate my dad’s birthday with family. As I walked into the house, greeted by the menagerie of animals (see The Pussy Test), I did a quick loop of the first floor to locate the family. I discovered my dad on the back patio, rocking almost autistically in a chair. Like me, my dad lacks the ability to filter, and has been described by those who know (and don’t really know) him as an asshole. Walking out to patio my dad wasted little time.

“You’ve been lying to me.”

This, in an of itself, was not cause for alarm, as I have lied, and continue to do so, when it is just easier. When it comes to the big stuff, I never lie, but I have definitely been known to omit or exaggerate when it doesn’t really matter.

Careful not to out myself (Did he figure out that I’d hit the car on the side of the garage or did he still think I was clipped by a car in the mall parking lot?), I responded nonchalantly, “What are you talking about?”

“Your brothers a faggot.”

Caught completely off-guard, and completely flabbergasted by this accusation (but in no way by its blunt delivery), I could only laugh. This proved only to further incite my father.

“This isn’t funny. This is serious.”

“Dad,” I managed to get out, “Why do you think Will’s gay?”

“I saw him skype-ing another guy, and I can tell you something Chapin, straight guys don’t skype.”

Valid.

But I was unable to infer that because my brother may or may not have skyped another guy, he was also taking it in the butt.

I had never seriously considered my brother’s sexuality. He had dated hot girls. He had had a long term girlfriend. He partied in Miami. All of these pointed to straight. And honestly, I didn’t care either way. So confused by my father’s allegations, I texted my brother under the table as my dad continued to rant about the “difficulty” of Will’s life now that he was a homo.

hey. at mom and dads. dad thinks ur gay.

i am. can you tell them for me. thx. (Because THIS is how you’re supposed to come out???!!)

yup. happy birthday dad.

Needless to say, I came out for my brother. It in no way bothered me that he was gay, and I had no choice but to perform the bizarre sisterly duty of coming out to my parents. (Cross if off the bucket list?).

The rest of the weekend was sort of a blur. Immediately after the “big gay reveal,” my dad hightailed it to the garden shed, grabbed a chainsaw, and proceeded to chop down anything that remotely needed a trim. My undergrad psychology degree tells me that this was my dad’s way of proving that he is a straight man. FULL OF TESTOSTERONE.

“Can’t he just pretend to be straight, his life will be so much better.” Nope.

“But he’s such a good looking young man.” Can’t he just be an ugly faggot? Would it be easier to digest?

Happy Birthday Dad.

Over two years have gone by, and now that my good looking gay brother is married to another good looking gay man, my dad has been forced to cope, without the chainsaw. This past Christmas, we were even lucky enough to spend the holiday together. Me, My Parents, and the Gays, as they are now affectionately called in the Lee Household.

But despite this acceptance, my dad is still not ready to completely accept our “situation.” Below are a few excerpts from father’s Christmas presents’ tags:

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New York is an interesting place. Apartments are small. Egos are large. And New Yorkers love their animals!!!

Growing up, my parents’ house could often be described as a scene right out of the Lion King, on Pride Rock. The golden retrievers (no less than three) were circling the house, anxious about any passing car, creating a “track” around the house that still exists today. The cats could be seen in various states of angst. The “good cats” were permitted to exist on the first and second floor of the house, with free reign of any room except the living room. The “bad cats,” or the cats that had urinated and/or defecated outside of the litter box were sent to live in the basement. At times, we had upwards of ten animals parading around the home, including but not limited to dogs, cats, fish (of the saltwater variety), mice, hamsters, and horses (luckily not living inside the home). As a veterinarian, my father was always spicing up the mix of animalia living with us, taking in stray cats from the barn or from clients who could no longer take care of them, breeding golden retrievers in the basement (because why not?), and even rescuing a (shit-eating) pitbull (a breed that does not sit well in this predominately white, suburb of New York City).

Golden Retriever #7

With this as background, I was not surprised that after a few years of city life, I missed the companionship of animals. Living in the East Village, space is both tight and expensive, and as much as I love dogs, there was no way I would be sharing my closet apartment with a canine. With this realization it dawned on me. I had to get a cat. I WOULD BE A CAT LADY. And I would be destined to grow chin hair, and end up in an apartment littered with felines in various states of decline, with my domestic partner, who would inevitably be a bag lady. What a life I was destined for.

Despite this horrific image, I sauntered across Tompkins Square Park to take a look at one of the many cat shelters with my roommate Rae (I needed emotional support). Upon walking in, not only did I fall in love with the skinniest pussy in there, but Rae developed a love-connection with my pussy’s brother (from this point forward pussy will be randomly inserted in the place of cat, feline, and pussycat). FUCK. WE WERE GOING TO BE CAT LADIES!!! WITH CHIN HAIRS!!!

Yet despite the twenty plus cats that were loitering about, the process of adopting a cat was less than simple. After completing a lengthy application about ourselves, and our intentions with the felines (Would we declaw them? YES (but of course wrote no because of the animal activists) Would we feed them wet food? FUCK NO What were we looking for in our feline companions? Be a good pussy? The list goes on…), we were told we would be contacted if we were initially approved. Initially approved? What else needed to happen? We wanted to take these pussies out of your shelter, off your hands, so that we could free up those spaces for the other New York stray pussies!

“After the initial-approval we will come to a home visit and interview. After the interview, we will notify you within a week if you have been accepted. The cost to adopt each cat is $200.”

THE FUCK.

Although I was tempted to walk out, grab a stray cat off the street and have my dad do the necessary work on said cat, one look at Rae and I knew we had been sucked in. She needed that cat. Not just any cat. THAT ONE.

The day of the pussy interview arrived, and it felt like I was preparing for the GREs.

“What do we say about declawing?”

“We think its cruel and won’t do it.”

Pussy #1 After Declaw

“Where will the litter box go?”

“In the closet?”

“Should we make tea for the pussy lady?”

“Already doing it”

“What do we wear?”

“Matching turtlenecks and high-waisted jeans?”

Rae was pacing the apartment (about three strides each way) as I walked around checking and re-checking that our apartment was clean and pet-safe. When the pussy lady arrived we were both sitting comfortably on our love-seat, like a pair of raging lesbians (I mean we were, in fact, interview for not one, but two, felines).

The interview itself was unexceptional. Yet as we were making small talk towards the end, said interviewer asked about previous pets. While I succinctly recounted the long list of animals I had during my childhood, Rae took the emotional route. Having had grown up with one cat, this animal had a huge place in Rae’s heart. As she began to recount her life with this cat, the trials and tribulations of a suburban pussy, she meandered into her room to bring back the framed photo of her childhood pet (to her credit, the cat lady was eating this up). While I struggled to maintain my composure (to devote one picture to each animal that I had grown up with would be a feat unattainable in our East Village apartment. I have also been said to be cold-hearted), Rae teared up as she narrated the end of her cat’s life, and how she is just now ready to bring a new pussy into her life. This would be a journey that we took together, as roommates, with sibling pussies.

With such an emotional end, how the fuck could this lady turn us down. Hook. Line. And sinker.

We were now officially allowed to pay $400 to adopt two pussies, saved from the streets of this dirty city.

And to think how much these cats will enhance the quality (and longevity) of our single lives? I am speechless.

Let the transformation to catlady-ship begin. BRING ON THE PUSSIES.

Sibling Pussies

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The never-nude. According to Tobias Funke, dozens of people suffer from this disorder, although not recognized by the DSM IV. For those of you unfamiliar with Arrested Development, Tobias suffers from the aforementioned syndrome which prevents him from being naked. Instead, he wears tight jean cutoffs under his clothes (because of course, why ANYTHING other then jean cutoffs?)

Scales of nudity-comfort vary widely in my experience. I have friends that refuse to change a shirt in front of me, even with a bra on, while others will parade naked around in front of me, even asking me for compliments on a recent wax job (sometimes it’s just too good to keep to yourself, I get it). I understand one’s degree of nudity comfort stems from a wide host of factors, and I am in no way attempting to dissect these with only a Bachelors in Psychology.

Yet never had I encountered a never-nude in the flesh.

Until I encountered a never-nude who I happened to be FUCKING.

Like most twenty-somethings, I am quick to argue that I am not a slut. But I also recognize that I like having sex. Good sex. Often. End of story.

When I first moved to New York I began seeing a guy that I had met through a friend.

After dating for a little over a month (which in New York terms is akin to moving in together), we began to become more physical (Thank GOD. See paragraph above describing my need for sex). Yet during this progression, I began to notice little things about our “sex-capades” that were incongruous with what I was both used to and preferred. Sometimes, a Tee-shirt would not be removed during sex. This is not a deal-breaker to me. Other times, however, I noticed that if the Tee-shirt was off, it became near impossible to get off the boxers. This can become a deal-breaker to me. Yet what finally did it, was one night, after hours of drinking in Brooklyn, I believed that I had finally succeeded in getting my male counterpart nude (!!!), only to turn around and realize my mistake.

Although I had gotten his shirt off, I had assumed (incorrectly) that because we were “doing it” I had succeeded. I was turned around, unable to see, and what ELSE could I have thought?! NEVER would I have imagined that I would be having sex with a shirtless man through the boxer hole. Yup. THE BOXER HOLE. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a deal-breaker to me.

Cross it off the bucket list. Bed pissers. Never-nudes.

BRING IT ON 2014.

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Kinship. It’s the smile you give someone running towards you on the bike path. It’s the wave you give to a pedestrian as you drive to let them cross the street. In New York, however, kinship takes on a new meaning. It is not waving or smiling. It is the rolling of your eyes to the fellow subway rider when a group of tweens get on at the next subway stop. It’s the honk that you give to follow the honk of the car ahead of you, and the car two cars ahead. And while I have, on multiple occasions felt this closeness, or kinship, with fellow New Yorkers, I now feel kinship with another subset: the bed-wetters.

I can safely say that I spent over twenty six years of my life without any understanding of the bed-wetting, or drunk pissing phenomenon. I understood its inconvenience, but had been spared of any direct relationship with this phenomena until recently. After a long night of live music and one two many cocktails (let it be known that I have NEVER blacked or browned out from drinking, and have NEVER vomited due to consumption of alcohol [a separate story entirely]), I sent a typical late night text to a guy that I had had a serious attraction to for well over a year. The only background information necessary to this story is that he was a server at my local watering hole in the West Village, one that I still frequent today. We had exchanged numbers in a friendly way, to try and catch a show sometime together. Due to his obvious (to me) good looks, I never considered anything other than the platonic friendship you develop with your local bar staff (I am now able to laugh at my naivete. Friends?!?!).

The text was not wordy. In fact, it was only three words. Want to get high?

Despite the ridiculousness(but truthfulness) of this opener, I was shocked to get an affirmative response right away. Needless to say, within thirty minutes I was meeting the man of my masturbatory dreams for a round of drinks at a hotel bar conveniently located two short avenues from my bed. Without even finishing the obligatory drink, the tab was paid and we were beginning the short trek home to my apartment.

As night turned into dawn, and mediocre sex was finally finished (I blame it on his drunken state, and no fault of my own), I rolled over to get some much needed shut eye (fully clothed). After what seemed like minutes, I was awakened out of a foggy haze to the sound of liquid spilling. Thinking it was the male’s water spilling onto my carpet, and perhaps too tired to comprehend that I have water glasses incapable of holding much liquid at all, I did nothing.

It was only when the “stream” of liquid began to fluctuate in pressure that my anxiety began to rise. Not only was this an attractive male that I had secretly lusted over for about year, BUT THIS WAS MY NEW TEMPUR-PEDIC MATTRESS. With the mattress’ interests (and my investment) at the forefront of my mind, I turned over to see what was happening on the other side of the bed (because like any other tempur-pedic, you are unable to feel anything that is happening on the other side of the bed. I applaud you tempur-pedic).

What I encountered as I turned around is an image that will stick with me for at least another fortnight. Said male, stark naked, appeared to be in a child’s pose directly atop my beloved tempur-pedic. Furthermore, the water that had been “spilling” all this time was in fact a rapidly fading (at this point) stream of urine, flowing on and around my bed.

I reacted with the classic fight-or-flight response, naturally. Not only did I physically strike said male across the back, but I also verbally abused him as best I could, yelling such phrases as “are you FUCKING pissing my bed? WAKE UP! Aren’t you like thirty-three?! The sex wasn’t even that good!”

And although I thought his response would have the sense of urgency which had been so clearly conveyed in my tone, he merely looked up at my and said, “NO. Are YOU pissing in your bed?”

Because of course. What else had I expected?

The part I am least proud of, however, is that despite my knowing that there was in fact piss all around and in my bed, at that moment I did not force the issue. Instead, I mumbled something undetermined, turned over, AND WENT BACK TO SLEEP.

WHAT WAS I THINKING. Was I embarrassed? For what? I HADN’T JUST PEED THE BED.

When I awakened hours later, the “incident” was out of my mind. I had chalked it up to another oddly vivid dream. Yet as my male crush (yes, still), got up to leave, he conveniently “spilled” his water on my bed and floor.

“Oh shit I spilled water, can I get a towel and clean it up?”

“If it’s just water don’t worry about I’ll get it later.”

“Well it’s a lot of water.”

“I don’t care, I’ll throw a towel on it”

There exists a phenomenon that is worth a quick explanation. When you are in a confined space for an extended period of time, you do not notice the smell of the room (good or bad) until you leave the room, breathe outside air, and then re-enter the room.

Upon bar-staff boy’s departure, I was accosted by the indistinguishable smell of urine upon entering my normally obsessively clean room. And while part of me was impressed with myself that it had taken me over twenty six years of my life to endure this torture (and that I had not been the culprit), the other part of me knew that I had to get to work. I had CLEANING to do. I had to SAVE THE BED. TIME WAS RUNNING OUT. I DIDN’T EVEN OWN PISS CLEANER! WAS THERE SUCH A THING?! (yes, there is).

Kinship. It’s a funny thing. Sometimes you find it when you are least expecting it. Sometimes you find it at the Duane Reade with your fellow pharmacy go-ers when the gentleman in front of you is trying to buy one too many packages of cold medicine, and sometimes you feel it when your driving down Second Ave and the bike delivery boy just HAS to run the light on Fourth Street. But sometimes, you can find it right next to you, on the left side of your tempur-pedic, butt-naked. But at least you don’t cuddle.

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Three inches of snow and ice-rain and New York City is at a stand-still. The sound of naïve New-Yorkers revving their engines to move their stranded cars from the side of streets is both hilarious and dumbfounding. It is worth noting that no matter how hard you press on the accelerator, a car stuck in ice will not become un-stuck in ice and snow slush without an outside force. A colleague of mine reminds me, “Chapin, our education system has failed them,” and as an educator, I can only nod in agreement.

So on this slush filled “snow day,” I find myself in a stereotypical (franchised) New York coffee shop, finally starting something that I have been wanting to do since 2008: I’m a real go-getter. The premise of the blog is simple. Anonymous vignettes of life in the city, yet everything written must be truth. No exaggeration. Because nothing captures life so wonderfully than what has actually happened. It is too easy to embellish, and frankly, it would be naive to think that my life is anymore interesting than any other single twenty-something female living in the concrete jungle. Collaborators will include myself, my darling roommate, and a rotating token male-friend.

And as I have begun to get stares from fellow coffee shop go-ers for taking up two chairs with an assortment of bags, each with a very specific purpose of course, and for using a laptop on a “laptop free” table, I shall embark on this virtual journey. Godspeed.